Barney's Version by Mordecai Richler Page A

into McIver’s room, but, overcome by paralysis, he couldn’t even raise his arms, never mind move his legs. Flames consumed his door and began to dance round him, licking at a stack of
Of Time and Fevers
on the floor, every copy as yet unsigned, therefore still qualifying as collectors’ items … and that’s when I leaped out of my own bed with a song in my heart. I retrieved my morning papers from outside my apartment door, made coffee, and soft-shoed into my kitchen, singing: “Take your coat and grab your hat …”
    Turned to the Montreal
Gazette
sport pages first, a lifelong habit. No joy. The fumblebum Canadiens, no longer
nos glorieux
, had disgraced themselves again, losing 5–1 to — wait for it — The Mighty Ducks of California. Toe Blake must be spinning in his grave. In his day only one of his inept bunch of millionaires could have played in the NHL , never mind suiting up for the once-legendary
Club de hockey canadien
. They don’t have one guy willing to stand in front of the net, lest he take a hit. Oh for the days when Larry Robinson would feed a long lead pass to Guy Lafleur, lifting us out of our seats chanting, “Guy! Guy! Guy!” as he went flying in all alone on the nets.
He shoots, he scores
.
    The phone rang and of course it was Kate. “I tried your line maybe five times last night. The last call must have been at one o’clock. Where were you?”
    â€œDarling, I appreciate your concern. Honestly I do. But I’m not your child. I’m your father. I was out.”
    â€œYou have no idea how I worry about you all alone there. What if, God forbid, you had a stroke and couldn’t come to the phone?”
    â€œI’m not planning on it.”
    â€œI was on the verge of calling Solange to ask her to see if you answered your door.”
    â€œMaybe I should phone you every night after I come in.”
    â€œDon’t worry about waking me. You could leave a message on our answering machine, if we’re asleep.”
    â€œBless you, Kate, but I haven’t even had breakfast yet. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
    â€œTonight. Are you having fried eggs and bacon in spite of your promise?”
    â€œStewed prunes. Muesli.”
    â€œYeah. I’ll bet.”
    I’m rambling again. Wandering off the point. But this is the true story of my wasted life and, to come clean, there are only insults to avenge and injuries to nurse. Furthermore, at my age, with more to remember and sort out than there is to look forward to, beyond the infirmaries waiting in the tall grass, I’m entitled to ramble. This sorry attempt at — at — you know, my story. Like Waugh wrote about his early years. Or Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Or Mark Twain in that
Life on the what’s-it-called River
book. Christ Almighty, I soon won’t even be able to remember my own name.
    You strain spaghetti with a colander. Mary McCarthy wrote
The Man in the Brooks Brothers Suit
or
Shirt
. Whichever. Walter “Turk” Broda was the goalie for the Toronto Maple Leaf team that won the Stanley Cup in 1951. Stephen Sondheim it was who wrote the lyrics for
West Side Story
. I’ve got it. I didn’t have to look it up.
The Mississippi, Life on
.
    To recap. This sorry attempt at
autobiography
, triggered by Terry McIver’s calumnies, is being written in the dim hope that Miriam, reading these pages, will be overwhelmed by guilt.
    â€œWhat’s that book you’re so absorbed in?” asks Blair.
    â€œWhy, this critically acclaimed best-seller is the autobiography of my one true love, you inadequate little
shmuck
on tenure.”
    Where was I? Paris 1951 is where. Terry McIver. Boogie. Leo. Clara, of blessed memory. Nowadays when I open a newspaper I turn to the Dow Jones first and then to the obits, checking the latter page for enemies I have outlasted and icons no longer among the quick.
    Nineteen ninety-five got off to